Free Grand National by John R. Tunis Page A

must be the horse Tommy Wilson rode in the Irish National last year. Got into a mix-up at the first open ditch. Excuse me.” Colonel Pomeroy turned away to speak to a man with field glasses over one shoulder.
    Jack looked at Iris. Her eyebrows were raised, her lips tight. “A mix-up at the first open ditch,” she said ironically. “Brought three horses down with him. Only the mare came out of it. One had to be put down that afternoon, another has never raced again, and a third is just used as a hack now.”
    “How terrible!”
    She turned sharply on him. “Tony has every right to lead the life he wants. That was your advice, and it’s still good. I must get used to it.”
    “Good for you,” said Jack. An admirable woman, and a strong one.
    There was no chance for more talk as people kept coming up to them. Cobb noted with pleasure and a tinge of pride that everyone to whom she introduced him gave that tiny flick of recognition as they realized who he was.
    They moved nearer to the weighing room, and Atherton, dressed in Jack’s silks with the red sash across his chest, came up briefly. He shook hands and mumbled something to Iris, then turned away as the starter called the riders over the loudspeaker.
    “My word, that man looks bad. He must be in pain. Has a bad ulcer. He ought not to be riding today.”
    “Yes, I know,” replied Jack, watching Atherton’s stooped figure moving away. “He seemed unusually quiet on the way up.” Ah, the English, he thought, always the stiff upper lip. The man was really ill. He turned to find Chester Robinson, but by this time the horses had appeared and were cantering up and down past the stands. They went to the starting post, and after the usual jockeying the field was off.
    Quicksilver was carrying top weight in the three-mile race, and Jack felt the same sense of elation mixed with gripping apprehension that came over him every time he watched him begin a race and approach the first fence. This time the horses were over it all together. Before the fourth fence, however, two were moving out ahead, and one, he observed with delight, was Quicksilver. A head behind and pressing him—it couldn’t be—was Tony Hunting on a small, lithe mare. In a few minutes they came around, Atherton still in the lead, Tony closer every minute.
    Jack glanced over at Iris Hunting as the riders tore past the stands, then over the far fences. Her eyes never left the boy, as he went up and over, riding with grace and power, still struggling to gain on the leader. The crowd roared approval as the two entered the stretch. Atherton seemed in command, yet Tony was threatening every minute. They flashed across the finish in that order, the others several lengths behind. Jack, elated, walked over with Iris to lead his horse into the winner’s circle.
    A large crowd circled them, commenting on the winner and his possibilities. Atherton dismounted, handed over the reins to the stable lad, and left to change in the jockeys’ room. Jack noticed he was holding his stomach.
    There was a ripple of applause as Jack’s name echoed over the loudspeaker. He came toward the ring, leading the horse, and a minute later found Ginger Jones, his stable lad, at his elbow.
    “Mr. Cobb, sir.” Ginger was agitated. “You’d best come into the changing room. Mr. Atherton’s that sick. They’ve called a doctor.”
    Jack felt sick himself. Atherton should never have been riding. He was a sick man! Why hadn’t Chester noticed his condition? He himself should have stepped in and stopped the horse from running. Cobb remembered how silent and withdrawn Atherton had been all morning. Inside the dressing room a small circle stood about Atherton. His long legs were doubled up, and he was writhing in pain on the floor. A man, quite obviously the doctor, knelt beside him. The physician was injecting something into his arm. Atherton kept moaning, his pain plainly apparent.
    The doctor looked up. “Who’s with this